


And Dream Of Sheep

by evilertwin (gaylancesweets)



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: (Minor) Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8814310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylancesweets/pseuds/evilertwin
Summary: Reid can't sleep on the jet. Morgan tries to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello criminal minds fandom.............i'm here n i'm ready to be a Big Gay
> 
> this fic takes place sometime between when reid tells morgan about his migraines and when emily returns from the dead. also it can be interpreted as one-sided on reid's part or not depending on how sad u want to be :o)
> 
> enjoy!! or not it's ur life w/e

It was a straightforward case, or at least as straightforward as their cases get. White male in his twenties with anger issues, strangling brunettes because they reminded him of his ex-girlfriend. It would be wrong to say that the case was _boring_ \--classifying their cases into interesting or not is a habit Spencer has taken great care to avoid--but from where he stands, the motive wasn’t exactly something only the BAU could crack.

And maybe that would be fine, because putting away killers is always good, but their unsub decided that Alaska would be the perfect place to commit his crimes, and even the jet can’t make a flight speedy when they’re returning from the brink of the Arctic. And maybe Spencer would even be fine with that, but his head is aching and full of memories of Emily and all he wants is to be home, with the curtains drawn and the lights off and maybe even a mug of chamomile tea if his stomach will allow it.

He’s claimed the couch, which is a small victory, but he forgot his pillow and the blanket they keep on the jet is one of those awful knit ones with holes, the kind that Spencer is positive have never actually made anyone warmer. He shifts to his other side so that his back is to the aisle, squeezing his eyes shut and burrowing his face into the cushion of the couch. But when the ache doesn’t vanish or even recede after a few minutes, he rolls onto his back and lets out a huff, pressing his palms against his eyes as hard as he can, as if the sheer force of his frustration can alleviate whatever the hell is going on in his nervous system.

“You okay, kid?”

Spencer opens his eyes as much as he can afford to and looks across the aisle, raising a hand to block out the overhead light. He could’ve sworn everyone else was asleep, but here’s Morgan, looking at him with a concern that even Spencer’s diminished perception can’t overlook.

“Yeah,” Spencer says automatically. Then, remembering who he’s talking to: “No.”

“Migraine?”

Spencer nods.

Morgan exhales and draws his brows together, the way he always does when he’s worried. Spencer could do without the migraine, but even so, there’s a silly and selfish part of him that kind of likes knowing Morgan’s anxiety is directed towards him.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Spencer lazily shrugs a shoulder. “Not unless you can black out the entire jet.”

“Hmm.” Morgan looks at Spencer for a moment, thinking. “I have an idea.”

He pulls his pillow that Spencer’s been jealously eyeing for the past two hours out from behind his back and holds it out. Spencer hesitates. “You don’t have to--”

“Reid, don’t worry about it. I just slept; now it’s your turn.” He hands the pillow to Spencer, who reluctantly but gratefully takes it, stuffing it under his head. “Here, take this too.”

Spencer looks up again to find Morgan holding out his leather jacket. He frowns. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Cover your face, genius. It’ll block out the light.” When he sees the look on Spencer’s face, he grins. “What? It’s more comfortable than it looks. And it’s clean. More or less.”

“More or less,” Spencer echoes skeptically, but he takes the jacket.

Despite being leather, it’s surprisingly soft under his touch, weathered smooth by years of daily wear. It’s heavy and still warm from Morgan’s body heat, and if Spencer wasn’t so desperate to diminish the pain of the lights, he’d be tempted to just slip it over his shoulders and fall asleep in it.

But the lights are bright enough to kill that temptation, and in any case, he doubts Morgan’s generosity extends to actually wearing the thing, so he casts one more hesitant look at Morgan before loosely draping the jacket over his head. In an instant, he’s granted the gift of darkness.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “Thanks.”

He takes a deep breath. He’s not sure how honest Morgan was being when he vouched for the jacket’s cleanness, considering how often it’s worn. It smells like sweat and Morgan’s cologne and something else, an earthy sort of smell that Spencer can’t place aside from the fact that he associates it exclusively with Morgan. It’s distinctive, but far from overpowering, an enormous relief right now when all five of his senses are on high alert from the pain. If he’s being completely honest with himself, he likes it. A lot. If he closes his eyes and doesn’t think too hard about it, he can almost pretend he’s sleeping next to--

No. He’s been compartmentalizing these feelings for years and he’s getting sick of the way they’ve been cropping up lately. He wants to blame Emily’s death, her absence so palpable and excruciating, of course Spencer would cling to the one person who’s been a constant presence at his side, right? But that’s bullshit, isn’t it, because it’s one thing to want your best friend’s emotional support and it’s another to send yourself into a cognitive frenzy over the smell of his jacket.

He’s spiraling, he knows he’s spiraling. He pulls the jacket off of his face, squeezing his eyes shut and suppressing a whimper at the influx of light. He covers his eyes with his hands and takes a few long, slow breaths. It’s ridiculous, completely ridiculous, how he can stomach the sight of crushed necks and bloodied knives but become completely unraveled over something like this.

“Reid?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just--need a second.” He removes his hands but keeps his eyes closed. The jacket is on top of his chest; he grabs it with one hand, absentmindedly running his thumb along its zipper. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” Morgan says, and Spencer’s content to leave it at that and cover his face again, but then: “Spencer.”

The use of his first name undoes the little success Spencer had in calming himself down. He opens his eyes and tightens his grip on the jacket. “What?”

“You know you can always come to me if you need anything.”

It’s not a question, but Spencer answers anyway. “I--yeah, I know.”

“I mean it,” Morgan says. “Whatever’s going on inside that head of yours--you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

“I do, actually,” Spencer says, almost automatically, but he regrets it when he sees the way Morgan’s gaze hardens. “I mean--I just--I’m okay, Morgan. Or I will be, at least.” He attempts a weak smile. “But thank you. And, you know, I’m always here for you too.”

“I know,” Morgan says quietly, and there’s something in his eyes, something quiet and fierce and beautiful, that Spencer with all his brains and years of profiling experience can’t comprehend. It doesn’t nullify the ache in Spencer’s chest, but it does its part to soften it. “Try and get some sleep, pretty boy.”

“Okay,” Spencer responds, and pulls the jacket back over his face.

He doesn’t ever manage to fall asleep, his head aching the entire trip home. But still, the jacket over his face is dark and warm and he can sense Morgan just feet away, keeping an eye on him the entire time. And maybe, right now, that has to be enough.


End file.
